The following is from Terry Grigg's novel, The Iconoclast's Journal. On the night of his wedding, Grif is visited by what believes is a bad omen: a cool ball of fire. He immediately jumps out the window, leaving behind the smoldering ball and his waiting fiancée. Terry Griggs is the author of The Lusty Man, Thought You Were Dead, and Quickening, which was nominated for the Governor General's Award.

InthemonthofMay,1898,onhisweddingnight,Thomas GriffithSmolderswaschasedaroundhishotelroom,notby his bride, as you might expect, but by a balloffire—luminous and strangely cool. Needless to say, this wasaclandestineevent,occurringasitdidinaprivateroominasmallhotel locatedinaprovincialcityinCanada.Theworldwaslooking elsewhere,alreadybusilynurturingtheTwentiethCenturyin its dark nursery. Mussolini was fifteen, Hitler a boyofnine, Franco, the “little sausage,”only six. The ball lightning,that rarephenomenon,wasscarcelymomentsold,havingbeen conceivedintheheatandhumidityoftheday,bornoutof the belly of omen and mystery. The thing sailedinthrough theopenwindowoftheBelvedereHotelinLondon,Ontario, hissing like an angry cat.

Only moments before, Grif had taken off his shoes and arrangedhismorningcoatonthebackofachair,fastidiously straighteningit,dustingoffafewspecksofdandruff,attendingtoitasifheweredressingayoungerbrother.Hewasprepared to take much longer over the matter of his trousers, and had begun to pace the floor while he considered what their removal would ultimately entail. He suspected thathis bride knew much more than he did about how the evening’s scheduled pleasures were to be conducted, and he wasright. Shewaswaitingforhimintheadjoiningbedroom,dressedin absolutelynothingbutherfrighteningknowledge.

Grif, pacing pacing, heard someone cry out in the street below, the voice plaintive and slightly crooked with wonder. He stopped and glanced toward the window, then stood frozenashewatcheditfloatin,ayellowballbigasahead,haloed with white light. A live chicken would not have been unexpected,orastringoffirecrackers;someofthewilderboyshe knew might have ridden into the city to charivari the bride and groom with lusty drunken songs, and the odd boot or brick pitched through the window. But this. This was so far beyondbeingeventheunexpectedthatitstrippedhimcompletelyofcomprehension.Hiseyesmighthavetoldhimthat, really,thiswasnothingmorethanaswarmofbrilliantinsects clusteredtightlytogetherinamatingdance.Theydidnottell him this. They didn’t tell him a blessed thing, and he stood gaping,dumbasadoorknob,astheballadvancedtowardhim, sizzling and crackling, as if in the uncertainty of his newly marriedstatehehadbecomeamagnetforimpishandunruly phenomena.

The glowing sphere suddenly dropped and hit the floor withsuchasharpwhip-snappingcrackthatitwokehimfrom hisdreamingdisbelief.Itwasthenthathewasstruckthrough with a presentiment of danger—not merely from this fiery harbinger, but from the whole roaring marital furnace into which he had stepped that day so unguardedly. He took to hisheels,andtheballlightningpursuedhimsocloselythatit ate holes in his socks and fried the leftover wedding ricethat he was shedding profusely out of his trouser legs and shirt cuffs. A plucked Mercury, he made a dash for the open windowandclamberedout.Thefireescape’sropeburnedintohis palmsashesliddown,butnomatter,forassoonashehitthe ground, he was gone. He landed in a soft pool of streetlight, hisstrickenfaceilluminatedbriefly,andthenhewasoff,runningblindlyintothenight,certainthathislifelaybeforehim andnotbehindinthatsmall,suffocatinghotelroom.

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The ball lightning, meanwhile, fizzled to nothing. It simply faded away, this amazing electrochemical manifestation, witnessed by no one but Grif Smolders and leaving behind onlythetraceofanodour,pungentandsulphuric,andafaint crescent-shapedmarkonthefloor.

*

Posed puris naturalibus on the bed like an odalisque, Avice Marion Smolders, née Drinkwater, heard the commotion in the adjoining room and smiled to herself. She pictured Grif in his virginal anxiety tripping over his own feet and crashing into the furniture. Then there was that noise, goodness, thatsoundedverylikeashotgungoingoff.Someoneplaying pranks, no doubt, perhaps even Hilliard Forbes who was dead mad for her and would play them more seriously than some.Grifwouldberattledbyitall,andthenmoresoifhe evergotupthenervetoopenthatdoorandseeher,beholdher, stretchedoutnakedonthebed.Thegiftofherselftoobeautifulforwrapping.Besides—sherananadmiringhandoverher breast,downherthigh—shedidn’tneedamantoundressher, to inch her nightgown up over her knees in the concealing dark,whiletheybothpretendeditwasn’thappening.

Avice was a virgin too, of course, but she believed inresearch and had given Judith, the Drinkwaters’ maid, the silver breakfast cruet from her trousseau in exchange forthe details. A scene you might imagine conducted with much whispering,blushingandgiggling,yetitwasafairlybusinesslike and frank transaction. Silver for sexual information—a bold if secretive female bartering, and all the more satisfactory forthat.

“The silence in the next room began to trouble her. She shivered. How long was she going to have to display herself likeaglisteninghaunchinabutcher’swindow?”

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“Avice!”herthreesistershadchided,nonethewiserabout that chat with Judith, but disconcerted by her no-nonsense approachtothewedding,herwilfulflauntingofcustom.“Not inMay,”theyhadshrieked,thatbeingtheunluckiestmonthin which to marry, the month that fostered unpleasantly fierce relationships.“NotonaSaturday,”theunluckiestday.“Notto him,” misfortune’s suitor, as they saw it. Delicate fingertips probed their vexed foreheads, finding nothing in those tiny furrows,noteventheseedofanideathatwouldexplaintheir youngersister’sbehaviour.Orlackofit.Traditionwasahouse shesweptthrough,coolandbriskasawind.No,sheinformed them,shewouldnotbewearingmother’sveil,noranyveilfor that matter; she wanted no fogging sentimental mist in her eyes as she marched resolutely and defiantly down the aisle. Nor would she be taping a gold coin in her shoe,unknotting her laces or concealing anything blue upon her person. And yes, she would, and did, bake her own cake. The penalty for this?Alifetimeofdrudgery,atleastaccordingtoCecile,who stood by wringing her hands as she watched Avice slam the ingredientstogetherlikesomeonebuildingadoghouse.

Avice was aware that she was living on the littoral, much closertotheedgeofthenewcenturythanhersisters,whoas it approached retreated further back, as if from a huge wave breakingontheshore.Asfarasshewasconcerned,ifmarriage was considered to be so perilously rickety that it needed the slantmagicofsuperstitiontoholdittogether,thenitneeded tochange.Andshewouldchangeit,awomanunafraidtolift herskirtsandwadeintounknownwaters,howeverblackand coldandhightheymightbe.

The silence in the next room began to trouble her. She shivered. How long was she going to have to display herself likeaglisteninghaunchinabutcher’swindow?Whatifitwas ashotgunthatshehadheard,andGrif,evennowasshewaited for him to bring her warmth, to kindle her limbs, lay dead on the floor, much colder than she? That could not be, she decided.Morelikelyhehadsteppedoutintothehallbeyond her hearing to settle his nerves. Or he was preparing a little surprise for her, as quietly as he could, betraying nosecrets. That’s one of the things she liked about him—he was unpredictable, unreadable. Precisely what her sisters didn’t like about him. Who is he? they wanted to know. Meaning who were his people, what were his connections. What kind of nameisSmolders?Hemightbeoneofthoseanarchiststhey’d been hearing about, come to toss a bomb into the heart of theirfamily,totearaparttheirsettledandprosperousAnglo-Canadiancommunity.Wasn’ttheresomethingMoorishinhis aspect,somethingtingedandforeign,somethingofthemoneylender,thegypsy? To themhewasliketheswarthyimpina fairytale,whobysomeenchantmentwasabouttostealtheir youngest,theirbaby,andtheycouldn’tbeartowatch.

Truth to tell, Avice had enchanted and stolen him, or at least had chosen him like an intriguing and comely packageassoonasshespottedhim,aclerkbehindthecounterofKingsmill’s. She had been one of those children who always broughthomestrays,one-eyeddogs,three-leggedcats—once even a monkey, fugitive from a travelling circus—and now him.MuchbetterHilliardForbes,whowassolidandreliable,a youngmanofconservativetastesandtemperament,humourlessperhaps,limitedinromanticaccoutrements,butaknown quantity. Yes, Avice might have added, like lard, thinking of whatfilledthespacebetweenhisears.

Had they bothered to enquire of the groom himself, her sisters might have been surprised to discover that Griffith Smolders hailed from a village a scarce ten miles away from London,andfromafamilyofgoodstanding,albeitonalower socialrungthantheDrinkwaters.Theonlyveryunfortunate thing about him—and this was serious—was that he’d been raised in the Roman Catholic faith. (It was well known that Catholics stole into people’s homes late at night like darknessitselfandslaughteredwholefamiliesintheirbeds.)Even so, when Grif’s father proffered his quivering and purplish tongueatthealtarrail,fullyexpectingtheHosttoalightonit, acertainamountofProtestantismalsodriftedin.ThisbeingpuritanOntario,itwasintheair,akindofecumenicalpollution. And when those sober, joyless sentiments drifted back out of his father’s mouth, Grif caught the brunt of it. Utility, discipline, work, work, work. Grif did not mind the labour, only its wages. As a boy he had been sent several times aweektocleanthechurchforFatherFallon,andonhisreturn homewouldbesoundlybeaten,whichwashisfather’swayof keeping him morally rigorous and spiritually focused. Grif appealedtoallthesaintsinheavenduringthesesessions,but nohelpeverarrived,notevenfromthosewhohadthemselves been most gruesomely martyred. If there was a point to this brutal exercise, he eventually decided to take its opposite. God’stenancyweakenedinhisyoungmind,andtheAlmighty became a squatter at best, in danger of being turfed out entirely at short notice to walk the streets like the unsightly and unworthy poor. When he arrived in London during the Depressionofthemid-ninetiessearchingforemployment,he let his saint’s name, Thomas, be struck away from him like a uselesslimb.HewassimplyGrif.

Afteraboutanhourhadpassed,AviceSmolders,hernew name still light upon her back, still bridal fresh and alluring, rosefromthebedandwalkedtothedoorthatjoinedthetwo rooms. She opened it a crack, then wide enough to let abandonment flood in. She saw the raised window, the curtain stirring slightly. She saw Grif’s shoes neatly placed by the wardrobe, his coat hanging on the back of the chair. She saw asickle-shapedscorchmarkonthefloor,ablackbrandburnt into the hardwood, suggesting what? That Grif had beenreaped right out of the world without a trace. Spontaneous combustion?(ShehadreadherDickens.)Ifshehadknownhe wasaCatholic,areligionrifewithfantasticplotsandabsurd characters, she might have suspected Satanic foul play. Adamantbelief,sheknew,couldturntheuntenableintofact,the incredible into something hard-edged and real. Beware of whatyouopenyourmindto,wasthegistofthisthinking,for itmightsweepinanddestroyyou.ButGrifhadbeensoevasiveonthesubjectofreligionwheninterviewedbyherfather, amemberoftheProtestantProtectiveAssociation,thathe hadbeensuspectedofagnosticismratherthananycredulous andchildishpopery.Despitethefainttraceofsulphurthat stilllingeredinthehotelroom,Avicewascertainthatnodevil hadthiseveningpassedthrough,fornoone,notevenold Harryhimself,woulddaretakefromherthatwhichwashers.

Grif meanwhile had himselftakensomething—other than his freedom—that was definitely not his.Fleeing down RichmondStreet,downQueens,duckingbehindSt.Paul’s Cathedraltocatchhisbreath,hespottedanopenwindowin the church’s manse, courtesy of the warm night, thebeneficenceofMayinLondon,aswellastheoverheatedbulkofthe manse’s occupant, the Reverend Elias Bee. Asfortune would have it, Reverend Bee had with slovenly panache just tossed hisjacketonthefloorbeneaththatverywindow,andhadfollowed up this gift with a pair of very fine shoes, which, after hittingtheledge,landeddirectlyontopofthejacket.Hehad seatedhimselfonachubbyhorsehairsofabythecoldhearth and was presently admiring his hands and wiggling his toes like a baby. They were his best features, his hands and feet, delicate,fine-boned,smallbutexpressive,hisfingersplucking meaningrightoutoftheairashedeliveredhissermons,and his feet—well, they spoke too, in their way. Quick and agile, they were built for dancing, for mincing, for occupations requiring stealth. He clothed them in only the bestimported shoesandboots,inleatherthathugged,thattookahighshine, nattyenoughforSirWilfridhimself.Unfortunately,hisshoes were a poor fit for Grif. They pinched. The jacket was overlargeandoverripe,asifReverendBee’sprideinhispersondid notextendbeyondhisdaintyappendages.

Grif had never stolen anything before. However, one churchbeingasgood,orbad,asanother,hefelthehadalready paidmorethanenoughfortheseitems,theshoesespecially,sosoftandsuppletheymighthavebeenmadeofhisownflayed skin, his child’s beaten-blue husk. He couldn’t know that the Reverend Bee was the real thief here. Steeped in satisfaction, unaware of Grif’s arm sliding through the window, the venerable man sat smiling to himself and regarding his own cleverhands,thinkingofthebookhehadsnatchedthatevening from the archbishop’s library. It was a very old book, an antiquity, and in splendid condition. A black market existed forsuchtexts,onethathe,amanmostcomfortableinblack, found very useful. For one thing, this sort of trade paid for hisexquisiteshoes,beautifullycraftedexamplesofwhichGrif nowstoleawayin.Tocelebrate,ReverendBeedecidedtotreat himself to a finger, or two, of brandy—a light-fingered libation—before retrieving his latest find from his jacket pocket and assessing it more thoroughly than his lightning-quick side trip into the archbishop’s library had allowed. How he loved old books, and the wealth they contained and, with entrepreneurial ingenuity,commanded.

Grif,amereapprenticeinthisthievingbusiness,hadsofar mainlytakenhimself away, uptheroad,beyondthecitylimits,beyondthelimitsofmarriedlifeandofdecentbehaviour; beyond even the limits of the shoes’ stitching, for theleather burst open like pods somewhere around Lucan, which only seemedtoaccommodatefurtherhisescape.

IfGriffithSmoldershadneverfeltsofreebefore,hiswife of several hours had never felt so arrested. The immenseamount of time on her hands was acting very oddly, and moving more slowly than she thought possible for someone still supposedly alive to perceive. She was sitting up in bed, Grif’s coatdrapedoverherbareshoulders,thecrumpledand undeliveredspeechshehaddiscoveredinhispocket(noone had asked him) long since torn into a storm of anti-confetti thathadsettledaroundher.Shewasfindingthegulfbetween oneminuteandthenextalmostimpossibletobridge,andshe wasn’t sure if she was going to make it, proceeding likethis through time being such a tedious and endless labour. Hollowedwashowshefelt,struckopen,likeashatteredwindow throughwhichachillwindseethes.Shesatsocompletelyand utterlystillthatshemightindeedhavebeendead.

At around four in the morning she began to stir, for by thenshehadbeguntorealizethatnotonlywasshestillalive, butshewashungry.Voracious,infact. It wouldseemthaton her singular and astonishing wedding night she had developedanewanddemandingappetite.Sheblinkedacoupleof times, as if waking from a strange dream, and looked about. Her eye fell upon a small dark shape crawling in the bedclothes, a spider that was struggling over the mountainous clothwaves.Shereacheddown,pluckeditoutofthefolds,and staredatthepoorcreatureasitwriggleddesperatelybetween herthumbandforefinger.HersisterCecile,whowasterrifiedof spiders and yet maintained that killing one was bad luck, would certainly not have touched the thing, and would have leaptoutofbedscreaming.Avicesmiled.Formerly,andsympathetically,shewouldhaveflickeditontothefloorsothatit might continue its tiny pilgrim’s progress. But tonight, withouttheslightestregretorremorse,shepoppedthespiderinto hermouthandateit.